Disguise not thou, at least, thy charming face,
Nor dress and ogle in the paltry glass,
For studied charms to make thy lover bleed:
Kind nature's grace alone will do the deed.
Shall Sol, unrival'd, from his orbit stray,
In quest of brighter beams to gild the day?
No object ever pleased my raptured sight, Sweet as the modest fair, in virgin white : The flaunting countess in her gorgeous dress, Is less divine by far, and pleases vastly less.
THE BARD'S ADMONITION
To a Young Lady,
From the Welsh of Davydd ab Gwilym.
THOU, who wilt comprehend my lay,
In flowing crimson, tall and gay;
Oh lovely lass, attend my vows!
Though not so fair the lily blows,
That meekest daughter of the light,
Nor costly beryl shines so bright;
Nor pearl on the young ousel's down,
Nor snow on Aran's lofty crown,
Can emulate the white that breaks
The conscious roses in thy cheeks.-
How sweet! Ne'er did the wave at eve
So softly sweet a crimson give!
Ah whither turns thy face, my fair;
Hast thou forgot the power to hear?
Or know'st thou not that beauty's made
First to bloom, and then to fade?
Why still thy amorous bard despise,
Confiding in those lovely eyes?
Celestial gems I own they are,
Yet other lands may own as fair.
Love courts thee now, but waits not long,
A timid bird, he's quickly sprung.
Now then, exert thy beauty's power,
Let this be love's triumphant hour.
When those dear locks-(forgive the lay,)
Those auburn locks-are tinged with grey-
When Time has plough'd his furrows there,
Where blooming roses now appear-
Cold age-(alas, my love, 'tis true!)
Cold age will sieze on me—and you.
Then wilt thou totter to thy glass,
And sadly view thy faded face:
No harp will move the trembling string,
To thee no raptured youth will sing:
Then, while the loves around thee play,
Sieze-seize their wings, dear girl! to-day.
Behold, the darkling grove is nigh!
With speed oh let us thither fly!
There should some rival swain invade
With curious step, our blissful shade,
To seek us in a hundred bowers,
His be the care, while love is ours.
Haste thee then, beneath the boughs,
Lovely object of my vows!
Haste, while youth and warm desires
Kindle love's resistless fires!
Haste, my life, no more delay,
Lest idle eyes should mark our way.
See, yon vault of lovely blue,
Dipt in April's freshest hue;
See where jolly May has spread
His opening buds around our bed!
A youth, uncheck'd by surly sire,
I yield the rein to fond desire ;
In stately halls let others rove,
For me-I love the birchen grove,
THE FALLING ROCK IN NEATH VALE.
From the Welsh Englyn of Rhys Morgan John, of
Pen-Craig Nedd.
Written about the beginning of the Eighteenth Century.
THE massy crag which tower'd on high,
And seem'd to touch the azure sky,
Exacting, like a monarch proud,
A dewy tribute from each cloud;
Is undermined, by swelling frost,
Its fissures wedged, its base is lost:
Detached, it moves in horrid stride,
And tumbles down the mountain side.
Surging o'er rocks, it brooks no stay,
And crashes through the brakes its way,
Till on Neath's margin one great bound
Imbeds it on the trembling ground.
A fragment thus records a tale
Of fallen grandeur in the vale.
e original Englyn, which with the above translation I transcribed
m the CAMBRO BRITON, is as follows:
"Creigydd a gelltydd gwylltion-a dolydd
Ardaloedd Nêdd dirion,
Rhwygwyd a braenwyd eu bron:
Fwrdd unwaith gael fordd union,"
A Dialogue between the Bard (Davydd ab Gwilym) and a Mai
From the Welsh, and transcribed from the
Cambro-Briton.
B. Good day to you, my lovely maid!
M. Welcome, the cuckoo's rhyming blade!
B. And how d'ye do, my lovely dear?
M. Oh! well and hearty, full of cheer.
B. Why, true, my love, you seem quite gay.
M. Ah! so you flirting beaux will say.
B. How fair your face of roseate hue!
M. If fair it be, no thanks to you.
B. Oh what a beauteous form you have!
M. 'Tis at my own expence, you knave!
B. Your eye-brows are so round and fine!
M. Well, what of that? they still are mine.
B. How jetty black your eyes so tender!
M. And what is that to you, I wonder?
B. By Jove your answers are quite pert.
M. And so they should, 'tis your desert.
B. Do answer me, my love, an' please ye!
M. To answer you is not so easy.
B. Now tell me, maid, don't be so dumb.
M. What will you have me tell you? come!
B. Is there of loving you no gain?
M. I tell you nay, you love in vain.
B. And will you farther grace deny ?
M. I will; for more in vain you'll cry.
B. Tell me at once, nor be so hot,
Shall I possess my love or not?
M. By holy Mary's name I swear,
You shan't! and press me, if you dare.
B. Shall we to Hymen's altar jog?
M. Seek not to prove me, hateful dog!
B. Then I will sieze my Olwen maid.
M. And I will shriek for Mary's aid.
B. Come, let us to the parson hie.
M. In vain to coax me, rogue, you try.
B. What then can I hope for? say!
M. A sign on a long summer's day.
B. Ah! placid nymph, I want a wife.
M. And I a husband, by my life.
THE BARD'S DEVOTION.
From the Welsh of Davydd ab Gwilym.
THIS narrative of a conversation between the Bard and a Friar, d several others of the same kind, in this poet's works, furnish a st idea of the degree of veneration in which he held the Roman iesthood. An ingenious editor of Chaucer has suggested a hint at his sarcasms upon the vices of the clergy might have predisposed e nation to a rejection of their errors; the same observation may be tended to his lively contemporary in Wales. Gwilym's recantation indeed published amongst his poems; but from the style, and other reumstances, I should conclude that the monks made him recanten in purgatory.
EDITOR OF CAMBRIAN REGISTER.
Ан could I tell the lovely maid,
Whose fair abode's in yonder shade,
The converse I have held to-day
With a staunch friar, clad in grey !
Approaching to the holy man,
My frank confession I began,
As thus:-" Dread sir, to idle rhyme
And amorous sighs I give my time;
In a dark brow and beauteous face
My earthly paradise I place :
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